


Wish You Were Here

by Captain_Assbut_at_221B



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is sad, Destiel - Freeform, How Do I Tag, M/M, SO SAD, SUPER DEPRESSING, Wings, and 13 i guess, angsttttt, angsty, light - Freeform, post season 12, seriously, spoilers for season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 18:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Assbut_at_221B/pseuds/Captain_Assbut_at_221B
Summary: Dean needed the light.Needed it like air, or blood or food.And Castiel was his light.So what does he do now that he is in darkness?





	Wish You Were Here

It burned him even from his distance. The pile of burning wood singed his eyelashes and flushed his freckled face. But he didn’t care. He reveled in the burn, in the heat, in the suffering. Why should he be in comfort? His best friend, no, the only man he had ever loved, was dead. And there was no bringing him back. 

Dean was a simple man. He liked simple things. Good, hearty food, long drives in Baby, a good four hour sleep, a shower after a hunt, he wasn’t picky. He just wanted comfort. And even just a smidgen of comfort could make things so much easier on him. Sam was comfort. He had been Dean’s comfort for years. The tiny smidgen of decency in the hell he lived in. Sam was his guiding light. In a way he still was. But like all lights, Sam’s started to dim, and Dean was left in the ever-crushing dark. Then a hand gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. And the brightest light he had ever seen stood before him, encased in the body of a middle aged tax accountant in a trench coat. Castiel means light. And he held the torch for Dean to follow. He could see when Cass was around. But just as Castiel had left his mark on Dean, Dean left his mark on Castiel. His fingerprints smudged him, dimmed him, darkened him, but Castiel didn’t care. Dean’s fingerprints were like badges of courage from the many wars he had won. He cherished them. So Dean, with Sam hanging onto his coattails, could follow the light. 

As time went on, the red welt on Dean’s shoulder—Castiel’s mark on him—faded to a scar. A single perfect handprint forever on his skin. But as time went on, Dean’s mark on Castiel—the tiny smudges on his soul—they didn’t fade. They only grew. And though Castiel’s light dimmed, he didn’t care. The smudges on his soul made him closer to human. Made him closer to his father’s greatest creation. Made him closer to Dean. But no matter how many fingerprints Dean put on his soul, he could still be the light. And Dean didn’t stumble. Castiel led him through pain and danger, through the valley of the shadow of death, and all Dean had to do was follow the light. Follow his angel. When Castiel abandoned him in purgatory, Dean followed it to find him. When he fell from heaven, Dean followed it to protect him. When he burned in the fire of his own wings, Dean followed it to save him. When he stood alone and afraid, Dean followed it to stand beside him. When he was possessed by Lucifer, Dean followed it to watch over him. Wherever he was, no matter what he did, Dean could find his light. And he could rest in it. Always.

Dean always knew the time would come and he would die. He knew that he wasn’t going to get to live to be old and gray with Sam or see wrinkles covering his body. He knew that. And he was okay with it. The only thing he wanted was to die first. Before Sam, before Cass, he wanted to go first. So he wasn’t left alone. If he died, Sam would have Cass. And when Sam died, Cass would have the bees. They could cope. He couldn’t. He couldn’t lose them. He couldn’t be alone. He needed his light to show him to the other side. But things don’t always go the way we want.

The moment Cass appeared next to him in Apocalypse world; Dean knew what was going to happen. He could feel it in the bottom of his gut. His light was going out. And it bubbled out of his mouth like vomit, spilling down his lips and crashing to the ground. “CASS NO!” And he reached for him. But Sam pulled him away. And he broke. 

There was no pain sharper to Dean than death. You would think that after all this time, all those losses, all that pain, all the people ripped from his life, it wouldn’t hurt as much anymore. But it did. It hurt worse now. Because as the white light burned in Cass’s eyes and mouth and as his broken wings were consumed in flame, a final flare of his light, Dean knew. His light, his guiding light, had gone out. And there was no pain, no suffering, not even hell could compare to this. His light was gone. And he couldn’t see.

The fire climbed higher and higher and the heat just got hotter and hotter. Sam stepped back, but Dean didn’t. He stood there, letting the burning heat consume him too. He wanted to be as close to the flame as he could. He wanted to be in the light just one more time. 

The fire burned down, and Dean stayed with it. Sam went somewhere, but Dean stayed there. And as the final embers smoldered out he rubbed the faded handprint on his shoulder. Cass had burned it onto his very soul. The last coal smoked out and Dean realized it. He was alone, stumbling around in the dark, falling in the pits that enemies had laid for him. Sam wasn’t there to guide him, and Dean’s own light had burned out years ago. The torch that Castiel had held for him was smothered.

And the darkness consumed him.


End file.
